Bertie and the Kinky Politician (5 page)

Recently refurbished for the cost of fifty Challenger main battle tanks, two squadrons of Tornado fighter bombers, and four and a half frigates, the interior had been converted into a sumptuous palace of extraordinary luxury, with original artwork, fine oak doors, carpets that pampered the feet, the most comfortable office chairs on the planet, and designer glass roofs enclosing the internal courtyards. The MoD didn't mess about when it came to spending public money! The original labyrinthine layout had now given way to a series of endless open-plan offices, perhaps to minimise the chance of someone sneaking in a quick war without their fellow workers noticing. Nevertheless, there still remained over three miles of corridors, ample to confuse those with even the most accomplished navigational skills.

So it was that James strode purposefully into his modest suite of rooms, nodding at the one or two people who greeted him on the way. He used his politician's stride for the benefit of the staff; firm, quick and decisive. He liked to think they appreciated it but was pragmatic enough to realise that they probably thought him a total tosspot. Why should he be any different to any other politician? So much for respect.

‘Good morning, Angela. A pleasant weekend, I trust?'

His solitary Personal Assistant glared at him from over a red folder marked
Top Secret
. James was actually entitled to any number of official secretaries and assistants, but his needs were modest and he was happy with just one, the one who sat in the outer office and organised his official life with supreme competence. Angela Lucy Hutchinson was a pure-blood English rose, possessing a peachy complexion, blushing cheeks, cornflower blue eyes, and honey-blonde wavy hair, qualities that had easily won her the coveted title of ‘Miss Most Shaggable' by the departmental porters. But she was no bimbo. No, sir. Bandage up her breasts, cut her hair, squeeze her into a suit, and give her a mascara moustache and she could certainly run the MoD on her own, and, what's more, she'd still find enough time to lay her crop-haired Teutonic stud in a series of demanding positions gleaned from the advanced gymnasts' section of the Kama Sutra.

The frigid glare from those lovely blue eyes should have warned him, but he was still reliving his heavenly Saturday night locked inside Celeste's padded wardrobe. ‘How's Helmut? Still rehearsing with the band?' James still felt youthful enough to think he knew all about the younger generation.

The younger generation felt otherwise.

‘I'd rather not discuss it,' she snapped.

Foolishly, James inquired further. ‘But wasn't he supposed to be playing a gig at some new Norwegian death metal club in Walthamstow?' God only knows what Norwegian death metal was, but it sounded like it might, just possibly, be noisy.

‘It's next Friday.'

‘Ah.'

‘At Wanstead.'

Oh.'

‘And no, I won't be going.'

There was a truly glacial silence. A sense not all was well finally dawned on James. Too late, he realised this was possibly not a good time to be discussing Angela's love life. Her face, normally so refreshing to behold, was set like stone. She threw the file across the room in sudden disgust, spilling its sensitive contents all over the floor. The discreet placement of a new military attaché at the British Embassy in Paris would have to wait.

Military attaché was the industry standard euphemism for “spy”. The British had been cheerfully spying on their Gallic neighbours since the Middle Ages, but events in 1789 seriously upgraded the intensity of their operations. The Revolution changed for ever the relationship between the French and their rulers, all of whom, without any signs of remorse, were carted off for an appointment with Madame Guillotine. Subsequent French governments have always borne this in mind and although decapitation is no longer on the menu, the masses remain perfectly prepared to take to the streets in unassailable numbers if their leaders overstep the mark.

Since the absolute number one priority of any government has always been to maintain the continuation of government, suspicions remained in London that, along with their runny cheeses and exasperating non-committal shrugs, the French might still decide to export their revolutionary zeal to good old Blighty in a pique of garlic-scented malice. Consequently, France has always been regarded with deep suspicion as a country barely under control and that's why, once the post-revolutionary dust had settled, all the other European powers quietly clubbed together and for the last two hundred years have been working hard to keep the French firmly corralled inside the borders of France.

Nowadays, this club is known as the EU.

Further relations were not exactly improved by the Iron Duke, who dented French grand plans for global domination at Waterloo, and more recently, a sudden realisation that wines from,
quelle horreur
, Australia and,
sacré bleu
, even California, were now regarded worldwide as being far better than their own, resulting in much pompous indignation and furious waving of the tricolour.

The French have always been, and will always remain, absolutely superb at pomposity! The best on the planet, bar none. No other nation even makes it to the starting blocks.

‘The retard dumped me for some chlamydia-riddled sow with plastic tits and a face full of rat poison.' There was a coldly reptilian sibilance to her voice that was quite unnerving.

‘Um, well, I'm very sad to hear that.'

‘Yeah, like sodding bloody hell you are,' she ground out. ‘Three years down the frigging tubes and that's all you can bastard well say?'

James winced at her seething vitriol.

‘Jesus, I hate men and their, their …' She clenched her fists and shook with brittle fury, obviously not entirely enamoured of the trousered half of the species. Thankfully, specifics eluded her. ‘I just hate them all,' she fumed eventually. It was odd – but not that odd – how women lumped every man into this one particular basket. She picked up a pencil, rammed it into the sharpener clamped to the corner of her desk, and turned the handle with what could only be described as malicious deliberation. ‘I wish this was his –'

‘Thank you, Angela,' interrupted James hurriedly. ‘I think I get the message.' He knew exactly to which part of the errant Helmut's anatomy she was alluding. Now that was a truly uncomfortable thought. A silence stretched out between them as James pondered on the image. He sighed sadly and, gathering up his despatch box and the morning papers, departed towards the sanctuary of his office. Displaying characteristic timidity, he decided it would be wise to avoid contact with her for as long as possible and began planning how far he could get through the morning without the need for a memorandum or letter. This interesting intellectual exercise had barely begun when the phone trilled. James stared at it warily and lifted the receiver.

‘What is it, Angela?' he asked in as neutral a tone as possible.

‘Downing Street.' That was all she said. No warning. None at all. Usually she delayed the call long enough to allow him to gather his thoughts – but not this time. It seemed she
really
was racked off with Helmut's amorous indiscretion!

‘Timbrill speaking.' He strove to sound efficient. Crisp. Smart. Very much the professional politician's tone. God knows, he'd spent long enough honing it to perfection.

‘James? Hello.'

James froze. Calls from the Prime Minister were extremely rare. Almost non-existent, in fact. Usually, the protective ring of advisors and spin doctors did all the donkey work, basking in the reflected power of their master, delivering their messages in arrogant tones designed to spread nervousness. The main man himself was renowned in the party for being aloof and uncommunicative – except, of course, when there was a television camera around. James knew for a fact he'd never before received such an august call, yet the clipped nasal tones, so loved by satirists and impressionists, were unmistakable. Something moved unpleasantly in his bowel. This was almost certainly not good news.

‘Good morning, Prime Minister.'

‘Just in? I'm a little late myself.' The PM used that irritating insult so often nobody bothered to take notice any more. Not even the cleaners over at No. 10. It was intended to be a ploy to ensure James knew exactly who was in charge, but it didn't work. ‘Had a cracking weekend. You?'

‘Yes, indeed.' James considered the PM's idea of cracking and his own were two entirely different matters. He squirmed in his chair and felt the residual glow of Celeste's enthusiastic crop still warming the seat of his pants.

‘Good. Now, to business.' Here it comes, thought James. The first stages of panic knocked on the door. ‘I want you to drop everything and pop over to see me as soon as possible. Say, ten? Tea and biscuits provided.'

‘Certainly.' James paused. ‘Can I ask what's going on?' This jovial camaraderie was a distinctly unsettling, especially from a member of his own party, despite the ritual offering of comestibles. These were not normally forthcoming if the interview was going to be difficult.

‘Don't worry, you're not in the doghouse. Ten sharp – I'll be waiting.'

The phone went dead. James sat back and pursed his lips. What on earth was happening? The PM felt far more comfortable with the other two senior ministers at the MoD, Austerly and Sharples. These two colleagues of James's had subtly emasculated his own sphere of influence to their advantage until at times it hardly seemed worth turning up for work. As Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Defence with responsibility for home bases, James's primary duty was to achieve the efficient financial operation of all UK military establishments. Boring, perhaps, but well within his abilities as an experienced accountant. To his best knowledge, Bermuda wasn't about to launch a pre-emptive, no-holds-barred airborne strike on Stoke Poges, so what the hell was going on?

Quentin Austerly was Minister of State for the Armed Forces and Wallace Sharples Minister of State for Defence Equipment and Support. With James, they made up the second rank in the MoD under the watchful eye of Alan Denmark, who occupied the prestigious office of Secretary of State for Defence. Now that was serious power. Alan was a patrician figure much respected for his charm, manners and ability. It was generally agreed he would have made it to No. 10 had he been fifteen years younger, where, no doubt, he would have done a considerably better job than the present lacklustre incumbent.

All senior ministers sat on the Defence Council, together with the Chief of Defence Staff, the heads of the three armed services, and a small number of specialist civilian advisors. James was also nominally entitled to sit on the Council but had been told by Austerly some time ago that his duties had declined to the point where it was not really necessary for him to attend regularly. Most politicians would have considered this a deadly insult, but these were people who were addicted to the accumulation of power. James's addictions lay in a quite different direction. He was addicted, for instance, to accumulating red stripes on his bottom! However, it was made perfectly clear he would be called in should one of the others be incapacitated. James didn't like the sound of that. It implied a national emergency and he was keen to avoid one of those at all costs.

James liked Alan Denmark. They worked well together. It was on Denmark's personal insistence that he'd been offered his ministerial post, but James had soon found himself outmanoeuvred by the supremely devious pair of Austerly and Sharples. Both would have jumped at the chance of another visit to Downing Street, striding along the pavement and smiling smugly at the cameras now camped permanently outside the famous front door before stepping up to the PM's study for some cosy brown-nosing.

They loved riding around in tanks and knocking seven bells out of anything that moved. On one famous occasion just after the last election, Austerly had been invited up to Coningsby for a jolly in a Typhoon, but unfortunately for him it had been announced only the week before that the RAF was to be trimmed by one fighter squadron. The pilot's brother-in-law was about to lose the job he adored so, with Austerly firmly strapped in and unable to reach the eject lever, they spent an entertaining hour exploring the absolute limits of the aircraft's handling envelope. Whiplashed into jelly by wickedly vicious high-Gee barrel rolls, he came back with legs that refused to function and a face covered in dried puke! James, despite his current apprehension, smiled at the pleasant memory. What was even more amusing was the RAF had then sent the poor sod a stiff bill for cleaning the inside of the cockpit. James even remembered the amount. Plus VAT. His accountant's mind worked like that sometimes.

Abandoning his embryonic plan of avoidance, he buzzed for Angela. She came in, took a chair and waited.

‘As you are no doubt aware, that was the PM. In all my years as a loyal party lackey I don't think I've ever received a truly personal summons before. He's only spoken to me on a handful of occasions, and then in passing at the House when my vote was needed. I suspect I'm not very good for his public image. It's all a question of perception, and I'm perceived as –'

‘Indifferent?' offered Angela brutally. She was obviously still in no mood for delicacy.

James nodded sadly. It was going to be a long day. ‘Even when I was offered this job it was Alan who approached me on the PM's behalf.' James paused, wondering exactly why he'd been offered an invitation to join the Government above others he considered infinitely more talented. Still, never look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘I don't know what's going on and that worries me. Have you heard anything on the grapevine?' It was not uncommon for the resident staff to know much more than their political masters and James was pragmatic enough to accept this disconcerting state of affairs.

Angela's bristling fury subsided. Pencil sharpening apparently proved to be excellent catharsis. She looked thoughtful. It was obvious from her manner that the subject was potentially delicate. ‘I've heard nothing which can be corroborated …'